


Defiance Chapter I

by aquilaofarkham



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Post-Assassin's Creed III, because no one else will, finishing connor's story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 01:19:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11116884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aquilaofarkham/pseuds/aquilaofarkham
Summary: An on-going multi chapter fanfic detailing the later half of Connor's life following the events of AC3. Includes his victories, struggles, the allies/enemies he made, and how he changed the assassin/templar conflict during the late 18th and early 19th century.





	Defiance Chapter I

**Author's Note:**

> This is gonna be a long one so any feedback and/or suggestions are much appreciated~

_The assassin spat out more blood onto the dirt road, wincing as he gripped his abdomen. What had been a long, hard, and agonizing day was almost over; soon the sun would disappear and he would be trudging through darkness. Quiet, lonely darkness until he reached home. Yet home – both – were still so far away._

_A familiar feeling, one the assassin got used to years ago; the feeling of personal isolation that came with being away from home. He always managed to push it to the back of his mind in favour of more pressing issues. Now it felt more present and painful than ever before, stemming much deeper than simple everyday homesickness._

_His wound was getting worse. He could feel it with every step he took forward. He could see it every time he looked down at the red stain growing across his stomach and whenever he glanced over his shoulder to see a faint yet still obvious trail of fallen blood behind him. At one point he thought his bloody fingers holding the stab wound would slip right into his gut. Every move, whether a short step or a sharp intake of breath, made him nauseous. The assassin hoped the adrenaline he felt during his most recent and most important kill would be enough to get him home, but it could barely get him back to Boston._

_Many thoughts ran through his pounding head, each one contradicting with the last. Find a doctor. Get home. Keep walking. Then, out of a sudden morbid impulse, it’s over. You can finally rest now. The assassin knew what sort of “rest” his conscious was trying to convince him of. He wasn’t ready for it, not yet. Perhaps another day. There was still much to be done and he refused to let an easily treatable cut stop him. The assassin was angry, exhausted because of his anger, and everything around him had become a blur. But he needed to keep moving forward._

_He also needed a doctor, immediately. That much he admitted. Unfortunately the only people he could trust were too far away. They were back home, the place he should have been. Except for one. If the assassin pushed himself a little further, he would find himself in Boston where the doctor resided. His last option._

_So in the end, Boston it was. Home would have to wait._

_The two of them hadn’t known each other for very long, only a few months or so. In fact the assassin had doubts as to whether or not she would be willing to help him. Despite their many conversations, he deliberately kept many things about himself, his life, and his occupation a secret from her. He never wanted to remain a stranger to her. Maybe if things were different, he wouldn’t have had to._

_Thinking about his odd relationship with the doctor caused the assassin to ask questions, questions which led to even more doubts. Was his decision to never reveal a large part of his identity meant to protect himself or her? Would crawling onto her doorstep covered in blood put her in danger? How much longer could his body manage such prolonged agony?_

_The assassin was no stranger to bad days. They were constants in his life. This one he would remember for a very, very long time._

_Before he could answer any of his questions, the brick buildings and sharp towers of Boston came into view. Almost there. The assassin almost thanked the sun for setting so quickly. A hooded stranger limping around the back alleys while covered in blood (both his own and another man’s) would no doubt attract some unwanted attention. Yet another thing the assassin was used to, but that evening he had neither the physical or mental strength to deal with it._

_He didn’t need to go very far. Hiding himself as best he could, the assassin made his way through the city like a ghost. If it wasn’t for his damn wound, he would climb up and jump from rooftop to rooftop, swift and unseen by anyone below, until he reached his destination. Eventually he did, not swiftly but still unseen. The assassin found the doctor’s home feeling weaker than he thought possible. But he was alive, albeit barely._

_Forcing himself closer towards the building, the assassin stopped before he could reach the back door. No, he couldn’t just knock and assume he would be welcomed into someone else’s home so easily. Of course everything had to be done the difficult, quiet way. Stepping back, the assassin looked up at one of the windows. He bent down as far as he could, letting out a hiss of pain, and picked up a couple stones in his palm. Part of him felt ridiculous but it was better than involving the other building inhabitants._

_He threw the first stone at the doctor’s window, hitting the glass with a faint **tick**. No response. He threw the second stone with more force. A moment passed before the window finally opened, revealing a woman not much older than the assassin. She was still wearing her day dress and apron while a crown of thick dark brown curls surrounded her soft, round face. Judging from her alert expression, she must have decided to stay up late to study or create more of her herbal remedies, which would then be sold in the downstairs general store._

_“Where have you been?” She exclaimed quietly. “I haven’t seen you at the store in days!”_

_The assassin lowered his head as his broad shoulders moved up and down with every heavy breath. Once the doctor got a better look at him, panic began setting in._

_“What happened? Connor? What did you do?” Another bout of silence, then he spoke up._

_“I need your help.”_

 

**DAVENPORT HOMESTEAD, MASSACHUSETTS BAY 1784**

Connor placed the last of his belongings into the large trunk, letting out an exasperated sigh as he did so. It wasn’t much – a few articles of clothing, books, and other miscellanea to help get him through the long voyage. Some items stood out amongst the rest, such as his old, worn out robes. He knew it was time to get them replaced, but there was a bittersweet sentimentality to them that was hard to forget, let alone ignore.

Lying right beside his robes, safely tucked against one side of the trunk, were two leather-bound bracers. For the past couple weeks, Connor wore them on his forearms sparingly and even debated with himself over whether he really needed to bring them along at all. But like his robes, Connor’s hidden blades, well worn and well used, were an integral part of his image as Mentor of the American Brotherhood. He didn’t think it necessary – in fact he found it to be quite the hassle. Still, how else would his fellow assassins in Paris recognize him at a first glance? If there were any left. Connor wasn’t really certain of anything anymore.

Mentor. Closing the trunk, the word sat uncomfortably in his mind, as it always did. In his opinion, the rank and responsibility didn’t belong to him. Not only that, he didn’t deserve it. Yet he still carried it, like an awkward weight upon his shoulders.

Taking one final look around his room, Connor made his way downstairs, carrying his luggage under one arm. The Davenport Manor had always been a quiet place but along with the silence came the feeling of loneliness, despite its many visitors. He stopped for a moment to peek into the main dining hall, where he felt the most downhearted. Above the fireplace hung the portrait of Achilles, Abigail, and Connor Davenport. Connor felt a number of different emotions upon looking at the painting; for now he tried to think positively. At least his mentor was still with him in some way. Yet it served as a grim reminder, one he couldn’t escape or forget. Achilles was gone forever.  

Connor turned his gaze away from the portrait. The time for sentimentality was running out and it was time to go. But as he left the room, a new thought came to Connor. If Achilles were alive, what would he want him to do? Would he tell his student to go on his voyage or would he try and convince him to stay? Walking down the main hallway, Connor arrived at his own conclusion. Even if Achilles voiced his disapproval and wanted him to stay, he would still go. For his own sake. Hopefully his mentor would understand that.  

The moment he stepped through the front door of the manor, Connor let out another exasperated sigh. Once they heard his plans for an extended trip overseas, everyone in the Homestead dropped what they were doing just to help him prepare. It was as if he had never left the community before. Connor appreciated everyone’s concern, but he could only take so much doting.

“You have that ointment I made you, yes?” Norris asked while Connor tried making his way down the path.

“Yes, I do.”

“And those pelts Myriam gave you? I hear it gets very cold in that part of Europe.”

“Norris, for the last time, I have everything you and Myriam gave me.” It was a little grating, yes, but Connor couldn’t bring himself to get angry, especially when it came to his good friend.

“I am sorry. This trip of yours, it… it is making everyone nervous. We are worried about what will happen here while you are gone.”

“Norris, I assure you there is no need for worry.” Connor tried calming him with a part on the shoulder. “Once my business in France and England is finished, I will come back. You have my word. How is Myriam faring?” He asked, wanting to change the subject.

“She is alright. Feeling a little cranky though. The baby has been giving her a much harder time lately.” Connor recalled the day Norris announced Myriam’s pregnancy; everyone, including himself, was ecstatic but soon afterwards Norris became an anxiety-ridden mess.

“Myriam is a strong woman. She will be fine. But you should go care for her.”

“You are right. She will be wondering where I am. _Bonne chance, mon ami!_ ” Connor nodded and said a small goodbye. He tried keeping it hidden, but he knew Norris was right about one thing. What would happen to the Homestead in his absence?

 _They will be fine_ , he reassured himself. _They know how to look after themselves._ Halfway down the walkway, Connor heard another friend following him. He expected it to get distracted and run off but instead it continued trailing close behind him. Connor turned around and glared down at the last turkey he owned. For the longest time, the bird tagged along wherever he went and became less of a companion and more of an annoyance. Sometimes he asked himself why he never cooked it.  

“No. Stay.” Connor stated firmly. He sounded ridiculous, but it was the only way to make it listen. Or so he thought; meanwhile the turkey gobbled some more and inched closer towards him. “I said no.” He repeated as though he were scolding a child. Thankfully, the bird ran off with a rustle of its feathers.

After that brief ordeal, Connor finally made it to the road where his horse was waiting. Surrounding it were a few more Homesteaders including Ellen, Terry, Godfrey, and some recruits who had come all the way from Boston. The two men cracked their usual jokes as they wished him luck while Ellen handed him a basket filled with goodbye gifts.

“Are you sure you have everything, Connor?” She asked in a shaky tone. Connor smiled and gently rubbed her arm.

“I do, Ellen. Thank you for this.” He looked into the basket, thinking it was more fruit and locally grown vegetables. Instead he found a whole assortment of biscuits and a jar of homemade jam. While Ellen was known in the community for her sewing and embroidery skills, she also showed her talents at making pastries. And Ellen knew Connor well enough to know that he was guilty of having a sweet tooth.

“This will make the voyage far more bearable.”

“Have a safe trip, Connor.” Terry said in his thick accent.

“Stay away from any dodgy streets in London or Paris, they’ll rob you blind and steal your shoes.” Godfrey added.

“And your trousers.”

“I will keep that in mind.” Connor replied and wondered if they were over exaggerating. After the two of them said goodbye, he turned back to Ellen who seemed more distraught to see him go than Norris.

“Please be careful. You don’t know what it’s like all the way over there.”

“I am sure it is no different than how it is here.”

“Hopefully you’re right. Well… goodbye then. Have a safe journey.”

Once she left, Connor turned his attention to his recruits. They crowded around him, patting his back while wishing him luck. Surprisingly, he was more worried about them than he was concerning the Homesteaders. He knew Stephane would take care of everything. But like Ellen, Norris, and everyone else, they had become his surrogate family and Connor was used to worrying over his family.

Despite his own anxiety, the recruits were in higher spirits than the others were. Perhaps they were glad to see their mentor leave in search of answers and better things after the outcome of the war. _Or maybe they are happy that I am leaving them alone for once_ , Connor thought humorously.

It wasn’t long before everyone had enough of farewells as they went their separate ways, all except for one. She wasn’t a Homesteader, nor was she a recruit, but Connor felt no less glad to see her. In fact he suddenly felt very sheepish; he hoped she wasn’t too distressed over his departure.

“I do not think I need to ask if you have everything you need,” she said sarcastically.

“It is good to see you too, Madeleine.” Madeleine Barrett was a resident doctor of Boston, though in recent days she rarely called herself that. She spent more time at the Davenport Manor than at her actual home with her mother and aunt. A lover of all things botanical and herbological, Madeleine was just as skilled with a mortar and pestle as she was with a surgical knife and needle.

While Connor didn’t talk much about the blood filled incident that brought them closer together in friendship, he still owed her his life.

“You must be annoyed with how many you have already received, but I brought a small gift for you.” Madeleine outstretched her arms and handed Connor a wooden box. “Some are from the store, others I made especially for you.”

Connor opened the box and smiled. Tonics, bottles of herbs, and bags of tea were just a few things Madeleine had packed for him. “These will help you with mood swings, homesickness, restless nights, and indigestion.”

“Indigestion?”

“You can never be too cautious.”

Connor chuckled. “Thank you.”

“And please stay out of trouble. Remember, I won’t be there to patch you up.”

“I promise to be careful.”

“Knowing you... somehow I do not believe that to be true.” Madeleine replied in a tone that sounded both serious and light-hearted.  

“Will you be alright?” Connor asked after a pause. “I am still unsure of how long this journey will be.”

“Worry about yourself. We’ll be right here when you come back.”

Connor had so much more he wanted to say. Every time the two of them met, that was always the case. But it was time to leave and all he could manage was a final farewell. “Stay safe, Madeleine.”

“Same to you, Connor.” She said, taking his hand into hers. The corner of his mouth curled as he watched Madeleine amble down the road before turning to the manor.

Connor remembered the first time he arrived at the front door. When he was still a boy, determined, skillful, and above all else, stubborn. _What am I now?_ Connor still didn’t have the right answer to that question. Was he still the same boy who forced his way into Achilles Davenport’s life? Was he a resentful man? Or someone else entirely?

As Connor mounted his horse and rode off, he tried not looking back.


End file.
